


Even If We Fail

by Maerit



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Conspiracy Theories, Dirk Strider has a heart, Drinking, Everyone Is Gay, Except John, F/F, F/M, Figuring out superpowers, Fluff, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jade Harley is Awesome and no one can change my mind, M/M, Multi, Not Epilogue Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, Rose Lalonde has a heart, Sibling realtionships, Superherostuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maerit/pseuds/Maerit
Summary: Somethings up.Four teenagers stumble into a conspiracy theory, which they may or may not be the center of.Four almost adults discover they aren’t the only ones.And 12 separated aliens try to survive on a suspiciously familiar planet, and maybe get some help from some of its inhabitants.Romance, familial discovery, and a poorly-executed bank heist ensue....Oh, yeah, and superpowers. Superpowers are here too.





	Even If We Fail

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Hope you like this fic. It was inspired slightly by a couple others, but I kinda forgot the names, so ill get back to you on that one :) Enjoy your day!

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] 

TG: yo rose, you see this shit?

turntechGodhead [TG] sent file

“weirdcraphappeningnearwhereyoulive.MOV” 

TG: it's all over the news like bees on honey 

TG: crackhead bees that heard from their honey-dealer that some new shit was in and they had to buzz their way over before all that laced honey was snorted up. 

TG: and when they got there they found that the honey-dealer had some queen bees there, ripe for the buzzing, and decided to stay awhile and buy them a couple of bee-drinks.

TG: i just realized this sounds like the worlds most convoluted bee-movie fanfiction. 

TG: i should pitch this shit to dreamworks.

TT: Although I'm positive that Dreamworks would absolutely love that... extraordinary movie proposition, I am afraid to inform you that you accidentally fell into another Freudian slip. 

TT: My perpetual worry for your female relatives has reached unfathomable depths. 

TG: how the hell was that a Freudian slip? 

TG: that billion-dollar idea was as pristine as mr.cleans tight ass!

TT: Not quite.

TT: Ignoring your the whole of your “bee metaphor”, you have forgotten about one crucial detail: Queen bees are the mother of all bees in the hive.

TT: So congrats Strider, you have continued to prove that you have an Oedipus complex complex the size of Texas. 

TG: first of all, jokes on you, i dont have any female relatives

TG: second of all, i never said that the queen bees weren’t from different hives. So freudian slip: avoided.

TG: and the term “oedipus complex” is completely and utterly off the rails.

TG: do you know what he did when he found out he boned his mom?

TG: he freaking stabbed his own eyeballs out with sharp needles

TG: like those little toothpicks they have for martini olives they have at those fancy-ass restaurants that charges you 500 big ones for a piece of cheese. the ones that have those fancy cloth napkins that you see on television all the time, with the waiters all have hitler-style mustaches and greased back hair. like, have those dudes ever heard of a shower? or do they really think that any chick is going to like a dude that looks like an overgrown weasel?

TG: i take it back. furries chicks would probably dig it.

TT: I’m sure they would, Dave. I’m sure they would.

TG: but you avoided the question. 

TG: have you seen that shit?!

TT: Yes, I have seen this “shit.”

TT: What of it?

TG: rose.

TG. are you not worried about the fact that there are flipping vampires where you live?

TT: Well…

TG: rose.

TG: flipping.

TG: vampires.

TT: While I wouldn’t quite summize my particular feelings towards this development as “worried”, I will admit I have exercised some caution in response to these rumors. 

TT: Although, the presence of Vampires in my general proximity is, to say the least, intriguing. 

TT: It almost makes me want to come face to face with such a magnificent creature, if due to scientific curiosity alone. 

TG: rose. i know we joke about it, but…

TG: please tell me you don’t actually want to fuck a vampire.

TT: Strider.

TG: because you’re honestly worrying me here. 

TG: i swear, if in two weeks you hand me the chumhandle of fucking “hornyhotsparklyBloodsucker69”, i will never talk to you again. 

TG: scratch that, i will talk to you for the rest of your weird, screwed up life. i will get every single juicy scoop on how your domestic life with fangy mcfangster is going, from first meetings to makeouts to dinner dates. how would you guys even get blood?

TT: Dave, as much as i want to perpetuate this conversation, I have to depart.

TG: oh, come on rose, i was just joking. 

TG: don’t leave your good buddy dave behind.

TG: bro has been gone for awhile and im sooooo booored.

TG: i’m literally baking like a fucking easy-bake coockie in this damn apartment

TG: what asshole decided to make apartment buildings primarily out of metal anyway?

TG: not someone who lives in texas, thats who. 

TT: Dave, I actually should get going. 

TT: There was a peculiar noise originating from downstairs, and I should probably check on mother to ensure she didn’t succumb to another alcohol- induced fainting spell.

TT: Or…

TT: Perhaps ‘twas simply a fanged friend in need of a lovely, blood-filled snack?

TG: despite being little miss “oh-im-a-edgy-dark-yet-smart-psychoanalyst”, you sure like to fuck around, dont you?

TT: It was a pleasure as always to speak with you, Strider.

TT: Would you like to Pester in around, say… two hours?

TG: sure. sounds good.

TG: don’t become vampire grub, lalonde.

TT: I will try my very best. Farewell.

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and your relaxing evening comprised of banter with one of your best friends, knitting, and scrupulous research about the “Lalonde” family tree has been unceremoniously interrupted by a mysterious series of bumps and noises from the floor beneath you. And while this is not an all-together unusual occurrence, it does have the unfortunate consequence of making you actually leave your room for the more vulnerable and mother-filled areas of your home. 

You sigh, shifting your half-finished project carefully off your skirt and onto the floor. Your knitting needles clack together as you stab them into a spool of purple wool. You survey your progress with more than a smidge of pride. You really, really hope that John will enjoy this gift, despite the blatant sentimentality and the rare, and probably uncomfortable, expression of how deeply you harbored the emotion of “friendship” for your so-called “chums”.  
…  
Who were you trying to fool, John would be happy with any gift you graced upon him, sentimentality evocative or not. That was just his nature, after all.  
Despite that, you are determined to ensure that the old rabbit was of utmost quality. 

The halls in your house are quiet, dark and haunting, looming with an assortment of shadows. In other words, it’s a daring culmination of all that makes it “home”.  
You open your door quietly, pulling it open in a single, brisk motion in order to prevent the wretched hinges from squeaking. You make a mental note to attempt and oil them somewhere in the near future. 

Your footsteps are light and brief, trying to make them as quiet as possible. You like to think that you can be virtually imperceivable when you want to be, inconceivable to the eyes of mere mortals, your form clinging to the dark as if it was all you’ve ever known. Although, you know that that is probably just bullshit. But, it was nice to try and hone your stealth regardless. 

There was another loud noise, a crash and the sound of the door slamming shut, this one making you, quite ungracefully, jump. You blush, and straighten your skirt in a single swift motion. Good thing your mom hadn’t seen that, lest she pepper you in inordinate and taunting concern. She would have practically had a fake-aneurysm over your minor scare, coddling and cooing over nothing. Her spitefulness knows no bounds.  
You begin to pick your way down the stairs. 

There was the sound of breaking glass, and then a pained shriek. 

You immediately whip your knitting needles out of your strife specibus, keeping them in an iron grip. Your heart was racing, blood pumping in your ears, as you leap down the remainder of the stairwell, gracefully turning around the corner and pressing your back against the cold plaster. You can still feel the shock of the jump in your calves. You hope the intruder hadn’t heard you, but you find that doubtful.

You then realize just exactly how irrational you were being. Dave had been filling your head up with vampiric thoughts, and now it was impacting your behavior. You should know better than to not let something as silly as mere rumors affect your mannerisms. Although, it was quite an interesting psychological phenomena. You made a mental note to analyze that conversation later for both Dave’s and your psychological profiles. 

You relax your posture into something a little less stiff, and, while not letting go of your knitting needles (you are not that stupid, it’s possible that there could be an intruder; and, if so, you want to be prepared) you rush into the kitchen with a less guarded and more offensive stride. 

The first thing you notice is the lack of anything to notice. It was darker, of course, as night was beginning to fade in, but what you could see was completely normal. The counter top was crystal clear, cupboards closed, and passive-aggressive fridge-notes unadded too. You furrowed your brow, and moved to step around the corner. 

Then you see the dark puddle of liquid surrounding a single, pale hand. 

You breath catches in your throat, and you move forward without thinking about it.  
Your mother was lying face-down on the floor, a soft, slurred groan emanating from her normally perfectly-lipsticked mouth, now smeared and worn in obvious patches. A bright, cherry red fluid was leaking into the floor, all over the dark elm wood your mother had spent hours hemming and hawing over before finally deciding that slaughtering some innocent Texas tree was the right course to take. 

It takes you a moment for you to notice that the majority of it was wine, at least if you could judge from the bits of broken bottles littered across the space.  
“Oh, mother.” You sigh, hesitantly lowering yourself to your knees. You make sure to avoid the jagged pieces of crystal, brushing them away with your foot.  
You want to say you’re surprised, but you really can’t.

You carefully, dainty, check her over, lifting her head to check her pulse and breathing. She giggled and smiled, apparently oblivious to the red drink sticking her hair to her face.  
“Rosiee…” Her breath reeked of liquor, strong and potent enough make your face twist. She was completely drunk, even more so than usual.  
“H-heellouuhh.... I’m ho-o-o-” She hiccuped as you examined her wrist. You frown and suck in a slight breath.  
“Mother, you hurt yourself.” You examine the lacerations on her hand and lower forearm, where the glass had torn through her skin like paper.  
“It don't hurt.” She slurs, attempting to weakly slap your hand away. You keep a firm hand gripped around her wrist. According to your previous knowledge of wounds, which was admittedly limited, you don’t believe that you needed to call an ambulance. The cuts were not too deep, and no glass remained in the wound. No, a simple dressing should do. You think there is a kit in the parlor, if your memory serves you correctly from the last time a glass was dropped.  
“I will return shortly.” You said, picking yourself up from the ground. Your mom moans.  
“Don’t leave me Rosiieee-e-e.” Her hand finds its way into a vice grip around the hem of your skirt. “I don't want to be alone.” Her eyes are wide and wet, and you pause. She’s silent, pleading with pure will and puppy eyes. You sigh halfheartedly.

“Hush now, It will only be a moment.” You tug the fabric out of her hands, ignoring her frantic cry with a wince.  
“Please, stay right here.” You don’t think she has the ability to walk coherently anyway, but a reminder wouldn’t harm her. It’s not like she would deign to listen to your advice in any happenstance. Except in a backhanded gesture, of course. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”  
You quickly abscond to a cabinet in the parlor, knocking aside a few books and assorted nonsense in order to grab a small first aid kit. It hadn’t been used in a few tics, so it was quite literally buried under a pile of knickknacks.  
When you come back, she’s attempting to stand, legs wobbly as she pushes up from the counter. You rush forward and offer your assistance with a muttered polite offer. Your passive-aggressive game is beginning to slip, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. Your mother won’t even remember in the morning.  
The two of you totter over to a stool, and she sits down tentatively. You begin to tend to her hand, snipping a chunk of gauze away from the roll.  
An awkward silence descends upon the room.  
“May I inquire how your work was?” From the way her head lolled to the side, exposing her ruby-red cross necklace, you don’t think it went too well. But, anything was acceptable in order to fill the conversational void. Even though these sorts of things usually didn’t bother you, something about the lack of words from your normally exuberant caregiver was a tad unsettling.  
She responds with a dry laugh.  
Silence follows.  
You frown slightly, hiding it behind a sidelong glance. Something was up. Usually in her drunken stupors, you couldn’t get her to shut up. But now, it was like someone had sewn her mouth shut with threads of restraint. (You note to use that line in your, um, literary projects later.)  
“You know, you can tell me.” You gently clean her cut with antiseptic. she doesn't even flinch at the stinging alcohol. Instead, she laughs again, this time accompanied with a hiccup, and your resolve hardens. 

Something is very wrong. Your curiosity itches and concern hardens.

“Mother, as your daughter, it would absolutely abhorrent and impolite for me not to listen to your every need. Please, allow me help shoulder any issues plaguing your wonderful mind. ” There. Your lips twitch. A passive-aggressive stimulator might actually kick her into action. 

To your surprise, it does not.

“It’ssss nothin’.” She replies, pointedly looking in any direction aside from yours. You begin to tightly wrap her wrist and hand, careful to leave her thumb mobile. You tape it together, careful not to snag her skin, and decide a course of action. 

“Mother.”

It was all or nothing. You don’t particularly want to do this but it was a necessary step.  
You grab her hand and wrap it in yours, and purposefully looked into her eyes, glueing them to yours. 

“Please.”

Roxanne Lalonde takes a deep breath, before squeezing your hand. Your lips form a small smirk. Finally.

“Oh Rooosie, it’s just… just…” She takes a deep breath, and you see her eyes well up and shine in the dying light.  
“Oh, it’s all going to end!” Her voice raised into a shout and cracked wetly, like ice shattering into a million little pieces. You jerk back in surprise, but she continues.  
“It’s starting, and… I don’t know what to do!” She started to sob, and then lunges forward in a tight hug, clutching you to her chest. You were completely frozen, stuck in the scent of the raspberry-tinted wine that taints her breath.

“It’s hapu-pu-pening! They’re already here, and, and i need to prot-to-tect ‘ya!” She continues to cry out, ignoring your sudden need to get away. You try and struggle slightly, but give up in her iron hold.  
“It’s all on you, you and the others. I ha-ha-HATE it!” she was shaking uncontrollably, and you could feel teardrops splatter into your hair. They’re warm, and make your scalp itch.  
“Annn, an the w-worst part?” She leans back, but her claws are vice grips on your upper arms. She’s wide-eyed, jittering and quaking. The wine had dried onto her face, red and reminding you all too much of flaking blood. Her nails dig through the fabric and dig into your flesh, her fuchsia eyes gazing into an unseeable space behind you. 

“I dun even know if she's alive anymore.”

You finally manage to leap away from your mom, rubbing your arms. Your breathing is rapid, and your heart is slowly eating it’s way out of your chest. Something sick and unpleasant made its way through your being, thick and nauseous. 

Your mother had pulled herself up, and began to stalk drunkenly towards her room. After a stilting shock, you dash after her. 

“Wait, what are you saying?” You pull up your skirt to race up the stairs, blocking her path. “What are you talking about?” 

She simply drags forward, almost tripping on a step. It’s a miracle she hasn’t fallen yet. 

“You can’t just say something like that and just leave!” You practically shout at her. Your’re award that your cool demeanor was practically thrown out the window and lost to the proverbial wind, but after that show, you think it's completely justified. 

“Is this some… metaphor?” You continue, moving to the side when she tries to dodge you to the left. “Some psychological trick in order to...to one up me at our game? Or is this some new rule set? To manipulate me however you please?” No, that didn’t make sense. She was too nonsensical to go through with such deception at the moment. Or, is she actually not even drunk, just pretending to be, in a coldly-strategize facade? 

She gently pushes past you, ignoring your verbal barbs thrown to garner answers. Despite her slow pace, she is almost to her room. 

You dash forward once again, blocking the door in an admittedly childish manner, one that would probably shame you in the morning. 

“I need answers.”  
Your mother hiccups, and wipes away tears and smeared mascara. Her hand reached for the doorknob. 

“No!” Mother, you need to stop running away from your problems!” Your hand grasps the doorknob, keeping it immobile and useless. Your determined gaze meets hers. 

“You need to be honest with me. For once in your life, be honest!”

But your mother had already brushed you aside in a gentle sweep, and shut the door behind her. 

You stand there, breathing heavily, clenching your fists, before absconding to your room. With a cold assurance, you yanked open your laptop, and open a new tab. 

You’re going to figure this out, no matter what.


End file.
